A Corona Christmas Carol
by Beta Gyre
Summary: Darker AU mixed with Dickens. Flynn Rider is spending Christmas Eve alone, having thrown off his former fiancée. But can a series of ghostly visits make him see reason and change a dark future before it's too late?
1. Gothel's Ghost

**Disclaimer**: _Tangled_ belongs to Disney. _A Christmas Carol_ was written by Charles Dickens, and it is now out of copyright.

**Author's Note**: This story is AU, and there are two main differences between film canon and the back story of this fic. The first is that in the background of this fic, Eugene was not stabbed and dying when he cut Rapunzel's hair and brought about Gothel's death. The second is that Rapunzel did not have her epiphany or revelation about her birth.

Like its source, this story will be five chapters long. The rating is for the dark emotional content and one "mature" implication; I don't plan to raise it above T.

**Content Warnings**: General psychological darkness until the last chapter. I should warn you now, chapter 4 in particular will be extremely dark and sad. But the fic is based on _A Christmas Carol_, so it won't end on that note.

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**A Corona Christmas Carol**

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**Chapter One: Gothel's Ghost**

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Mother Gothel was dead. There was no doubt about that. Eugene had personally watched her change from a sable-haired woman to a wrinkled old crone, and then, when she had fallen out the window, he had rushed over and watched as her body turned to ancient dust that dispersed even before the empty clothes hit the ground. Eugene had been astonished to watch the process of postmortem decay take place so quickly, but it indisputably _was _the process of decay, and he attributed its rapidity to the unraveling of a magic spell. After all, he _had _just broken such a spell himself by cutting off a sixty-nine-foot-long mane of formerly magical hair. The bottom line was, Mother Gothel was as dead as a doornail.

Whatever that meant. It was a saying that made no sense to Eugene Fitzherbert—or, as he had taken to calling himself once again, Flynn Rider. But, though the cause of death might have been highly unusual, there was no doubt that Mother Gothel was dead. This fact must be distinctly understood, or there will be nothing remarkable in the tale that follows.

It is said that to watch another human being die forever changes a person, and it may be taken as true for Flynn's case. He didn't like to think too much about how the woman had died. In fact, he didn't like to think too much about her at all. He wouldn't admit to himself _why _he preferred not to think about her, though he knew in his gut that it was not just because recalling memories of a death made him uncomfortable.

On the whole, Flynn Rider had preferred to think about a longtime favorite subject, the acquisition of money by illegal means. Even though he had held a job in a bookstore for over a year and a half now, and even though for the past six months he had only had to provide for himself and a horse, he still felt that it did not pay enough, so he liked to... _supplement _his income.

One Christmas Eve, Flynn was ambling back from work to his small flat. He had just picked the pockets of an aged traveler, and had done it so expertly that the old fool had not even noticed—though Flynn supposed that he likely _was _half blind. That, in his opinion, was merely a situation that he should exploit, rather than a cause for sympathy or restraint. Surreptitiously he brought out the coin purse that he had stolen and weighed it with his hands. It was quite heavy. Flynn knew it was heavy, but he still liked to exult in his feat.

Nobody stopped him in the street to give him the time of day. No beggars approached him, and no children teased him. But he couldn't care less. Solitude and isolation were what he had known for most of his life and _all _of his adult life—with one year, which he now attributed to a moment of insanity, excepted—and they were what he preferred, given the choice.

Flynn approached the building that included his flat. It was a run-down, weather-beaten brick edifice that might once have been a townhouse, but now housed a variety of mostly transient boarders, travelers—and Flynn. He had selected it because it contained a carriage house in the back, something that his horse required, and also because it was cheap. Flynn could not see the point in spending money on luxurious premises when it would entail spending all that he had every month to maintain such a style of living. Better, he thought, to hoard what he was able to save. Flynn did not go much for the idea that money has value only as a means of acquiring something else, something more personally useful. To Flynn, money had inherent value. It made him feel good to know that when he slept in his own bedchamber, he was actually surrounded by hidden money.

As he walked up the front steps, he glanced idly at the door knocker. He had looked at it a hundred times before. There was nothing remarkable about it; in fact, it was tarnished and dented like everything else in this building. But as his gaze randomly fell upon the knocker, it changed shape before his eyes to the face of Mother Gothel.

It was not the face of the old crone. It was not even the face of the violently angry _young _woman that Flynn had encountered in the tower. It was the face as he supposed _she _might have seen it, glancing benignly out at him, an expression on the woman's face that was neither a frown nor a smile.

He blinked. He looked again—and then it was a door knocker once more.

Flynn felt a chill creep down his spine, then back up it. But he immediately dismissed the stark fear with an audible scoff, stuck his key in the front door, and pushed it open.

There were no boarders or travelers in the building tonight, being as it was Christmas Eve. The aged landlady was also away from the decrepit premises, since she had a family of her own. Flynn had the building to himself, and as he let the front door shut, a clang echoed throughout the empty halls. He stopped cold for a moment as the sound faded, but when it was gone, he took a deep breath, scoffed once more, and proceeded up the dark stairs with a single lantern.

His quarters consisted of a sitting room, bedchamber, bath chamber, and storage room. He was still chilled from the memory of Mother Gothel's face, so—irrational though he deemed it—he could not settle down and relax until he had looked under his bed, under every sofa, in the half-empty wardrobe, under the table. No one was there. He checked under the loose planks in his bedroom. Sparkles of gold and silver gleamed from beneath them, the piles of money and treasure that he had squirreled away in the space between floors. No one had taken that either.

"Hmph!" he said as he locked the door to his little apartment at last and headed back to the sitting room. He lit a match and started a low, dim fire.

As Flynn felt the tension seeping out of his body at last, he happened to glance, in the flickering firelight, at a bell that hung upon the wall. It was connected to some apparatus elsewhere in the building and had apparently once been used to summon servants or perhaps to summon the occupant of the room to dinner, but it was now rusted from disuse. As Flynn's eyes caught sight of the rusty little bell, he watched in amazement and horror as it shifted to one side. Then it shifted back—and a sound rang out from it so loud that he could not believe the rusty instrument could have produced it.

Flynn leaped up out of his chair, his heart pounding. The bell continued to ring for about half a minute, but at last it ceased. Yet there was no relief for Flynn at this, for the sound was immediately followed by a heavy metallic clanking noise, as if a chain were being dragged somewhere below. Then the sound started to become louder, and the clanking took on a rhythmic pattern, as if chains were being dragged up a flight of stairs.

His resolution of skepticism, which had weakened as soon as the bell first began to ring out, was on the verge of collapse. The clanking was now right outside his door—and then, as if the door were nothing at all, it came through the heavy wooden door. The small flame that Flynn had kindled in the fireplace leapt up as if to shout, "It's the ghost of Mother Gothel!", then died again.

It _was_ Mother Gothel, no doubt about it. She wore the same medieval-styled gown that Flynn had seen her in. Her hair was curled in rippling waves and her visage was that of the young woman rather than the old. She carried a chain, attached around her waist and draped over her shoulders. Flynn's gaze followed the links, and he noticed that attached to it were drooping six-petaled flowers, bricks, stones, and keys. Within the loops was woven an incredibly long tail of pale hair. Mother Gothel's body could be seen through, but there was no question that this shade bore her image.

"Well!" Flynn said, trying to muster up his courage, though it only came out as bravado. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

"Much," the ghost spoke. Flynn had not heard the deceased woman speak much, but what he _had _heard and remembered was _exactly _like the voice that issued forth.

"Very well," Flynn said, ignoring the rumble of fear in his gut, "but you didn't answer my first question, and that's not a real answer to my second."

"Ask me who I was."

"Fine. Who _were _you?"

"In life I was the woman who raised Rapunzel. You, and she, knew me as Mother Gothel."

"Wait—the woman who _raised _Rapunzel?"

"All will be explained," the ghost said. It then fell silent once more and regarded Flynn with piercing spectral eyes.

Flynn shivered under the ghost's glare. He felt, somehow, as if he were being turned inside out; as if all his secrets, all the thoughts of his own mind, were being laid bare. He began to tremble. "Why are you chained?" he cried, no longer making any futile attempt to hide his terror. "Why are you _here?_ What do you _want _with me? I didn't _know _that cutting off that hair would kill you, so if you've come back to haunt me as revenge—" He broke off, shivering, rendered speechless by what was before him.

"I forged this chain myself in life," the spirit said. "I made the unique pattern it holds. You surely comprehend why I bear _this _chain."

"Yes," Flynn said in a shaky voice. "Bricks—stones—keys for locked doors—the hair. It's for things you did against—_her."_

"Correct," the spirit said. "I am doomed to walk this earth in death, never to find peace, rest, or joy again, because of the deeds I committed in life. And I warn you, _Eugene—_yes, I know your true name—that the chain _you _have forged for yourself is even heavier. What you have done against that _'her' _whom you won't name is even worse than what I did against her—and there are other things."

"I did nothing against her," Flynn snarled. "Nothing compared to _you._ Is that what you're here for, to condemn me? I am not interested, Mother Gothel—from what I was told, you condemned _her _for no cause all the time."

The spirit of Gothel regarded him without wrath. "You lie only to yourself, Eugene. Your _own_ conscience condemns you. Though you do not know the full extent of the harm you have done to her, your conscience judges you for that part you do know. Now, I cannot linger long. In my long life I limited myself to the few miles between the island and the tower, focusing solely on my own selfish goal... so in death I must wander the far corners of the earth. I am not here to condemn you. I am here to warn you—and to offer you hope. _You _may yet escape the same fate."

"Good to know," he said sarcastically.

"You will be visited by three spirits," Gothel continued, still without wrath.

"That's your idea of hope?"

"It is _your _only hope. Without them, you will walk the same path I do. The first will visit you at one in the morning. The second will visit you the following night at the same time. The third will visit you at midnight on the next night. I shall not appear to you again. Remember this. Remember me."

The ghost floated toward the window, chains in tow, and as it approached, the window opened slightly. When the spirit was standing next to the window, it was wide open. The spirit of Gothel held out a spectral arm and floated out the window into the night.

Flynn watched as the spirit grew fainter and fainter, vanishing at last entirely. Then he realized that the casement window had apparently shut itself of its own accord. The fire flickered in the fireplace. All was as it had been before. There was no sign, no indication, no proof that a paranormal visitor had been there at all—and Flynn found himself wanting very much to scoff, to deem it all humbug. But he couldn't.

He quelled the flames, dressing himself for bed almost mechanically. Whether it was from the shock and fear, or whether making contact with such a presence took a physical toll upon a person, he found that he could not hold any thoughts in his brain, and sleep seemed to be calling him. Within a few minutes he was ready for bed. Taking a single candle in hand, he headed into his bedchamber and collapsed upon the empty mattress, where he promptly fell asleep.


	2. The First of the Three Spirits

**Author's Note & Warning**: The sad/dark aspects of this story begin here. I would like to clarify something: The reason I chose for the AU to _not _include Eugene making a sacrifice of his life to free Rapunzel is that I find it less believable that... what happens here... _could _happen if such an experience had been in their past.

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**Chapter Two: The First of the Three Spirits**

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Flynn woke up again to impenetrable darkness. He glanced around his bedchamber. It was as dark as night.

_Evidently, _he thought to himself, _I haven't slept much. Best go back to sleep._ But no sooner had he leaned his head back against his pillow than the heavy bell of the town chapel, or city hall—he could not be sure which—began to chime. Flynn expected the tolls to cease with four or five, but to his amazement—and unease—they continued, with each one seeming to bore into his body, into his heart. Ten. Eleven. Finally, twelve.

"That can't be right," Flynn spoke aloud. "I didn't go to bed until after two o'clock." Seriously alarmed now, he got out of bed and went over to the window, wondering if it was actually noon and perhaps a cloud (though it would have to be a darker and thicker cloud than anything he had ever seen) had obscured the sun. Or the end of the world was upon them. _That _idea was rather terrifying, and he needed at once to determine what was going on. He peered out the window. The streets were empty, and for a brief second he wondered if it _was _the end of the world—but that he was doomed to wander the streets alone, slipped sideways, separated from the rest of the population, stranded here for eternity with no other human being around. The idea was so horrible that he strained his eyes to catch sight of life somewhere. Off in the distance he saw flickering lights in a few windows. He glanced up and saw stars.

"Well, that just doesn't make sense," he mumbled, utterly dismayed at the thought that he could have slept all day and into another night. He valued his sleep, but that was just a waste, a total waste. He flopped down on his mattress again and looked up at the ceiling.

Could the visit with the ghost of Gothel have been a dream? Could he, in fact, have gone to bed far earlier than he remembered? But no, he thought, he had no memory at all of going to bed _except _as the conclusion to a clear thread of memory that included the ghostly visit. He hadn't been at the bottle either; he had consumed no such substance that could alter his perceptions.

Suddenly Flynn remembered that the visitor had spoken of a spirit visit at one o'clock in the morning. Mentally he fixed upon this promise. The clock had chimed twelve, and all the evidence of his own senses told him that it was twelve midnight. He couldn't account for that by any normal means. If he _were _to have a visitor at one, it would veritably prove that his memories were real, _and _account for the other weirdness with the time.

Flynn waited, resting on his mattress, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't get back to sleep, but he couldn't focus on anything except the idea of the possible meeting.

At last the bell began to toll again. A long, deep, heavy toll, a single toll, for the hour of one o'clock. At this moment, his room became bright, and a figure began to glow next to Flynn's bed.

He gazed over the mattress and sat upright until he was facing the being. It was a most unusual personage, a kind of elfin figure. Sexless, yet Flynn would have thought it more like a woman than a man. A familiar woman, in fact, though not so easily identifiable as the ghost of Mother Gothel. The memory its face seemed to evoke in Flynn's mind was much deeper, and much more tender, than that—but it was not a perfect match, and while Flynn would not name the person he was thinking of (even to himself), he knew somehow that this being was not that individual. It must take on this appearance for purposes of its own, he supposed.

Its hair was white, but its skin was clear and smooth as that of a youth. It was dressed in a kind of Greek chiton, bound with a silver belt, and it held a sprig of holly in one hand. From its head a glow of white light issued forth, and at this observation Flynn noticed the candle-extinguisher it held under its other arm, for those times when it must have wanted to hide the light.

"Are you the first spirit I was to meet?" Flynn asked in a surprisingly calm voice.

"Yes," the spirit spoke. The voice was feminine, and very comforting.

"And what is your name?" Flynn asked.

"I have no name as you would understand it," the spirit said. "I am not the shade of a departed human."

"You look like—" Flynn broke off, unwilling to finish the thought _or _the sentence. Something must have caught in his throat...

The spirit smiled faintly. "People see me in different ways, according to what I most clearly represent to them. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

"Long past?" Flynn asked, noting the ancient style of dress.

"No, your past."

"Very well... what business do you have with me, and what do you propose to do?"

The spirit smiled again. "I am here to help you—and to that end, I insist that you walk with me. We must hurry. Time is short!" The spirit extended its hand to Flynn.

He did not want to take the hand, and he definitely did not want to walk anywhere in such freezing weather, but there was no gainsaying this being. Nervously he extended his hand to the spirit's, and at once felt it enclose his in a tight grip.

The tiny elfin personage walked toward the wall with the window. Nervously Flynn glanced back at his bed, wishing he were still in it and afraid that he was going to be brought outside only to fall to an untimely death upon the pavement. But the spirit continued, passing directly through the wall—and to his astonishment, Flynn followed, doing the same thing. He could not have believed the wall to be so like vapor...

The apartment vanished at once, to be replaced with a cheerful wintry street. No snow was on the ground, but a chill was in the air. Flynn glanced around. This place was so, so familiar—yet he knew he had not been here in, goodness, almost twenty years...

"This is the street where I was born!" he exclaimed to the spirit.

The Ghost of Christmas Past glanced at him. "Then you know where to go?"

"I do, somehow, even after all these years," Flynn said in a husky voice. He cleared his throat when he noticed the spirit looking slyly at him. "Carry on. I'll lead the way." Gripping the spirit's hand more tightly, he proceeded to stride forward down the street.

Song began to fill their ears, quietly at first, but unmistakably the song of carolers. They were approaching an impromptu choir, all of them dressed in the fashions of twenty years ago. Flynn turned to his companion with alarm.

"They cannot see us," the spirit said. "It is but a memory that we walk in."

Flynn breathed a sigh of relief, and they continued past the group of singers. He soon noticed a sliver of a house in the near distance, and as they drew closer, he felt a thousand things at once. Remembering what the spirit had told him, he peered through the diamond-paned window at the scene inside.

The house was small and simple, but homey. A big, warm hearth crackled with cheerful flames. Holly adorned the mantelpiece, and a skimpy fir tree decorated with ribbons stood in one corner of the room. A tall bespectacled man, not handsome, but loving and cheerful, sat on a worn leather chair opposite the fire, bouncing a little brunette girl about one year old on his lap. She giggled and reached out for her father.

There were two other chairs in the room, an unoccupied rocking chair and a small wooden chair with a seat made of a homemade cushion. In this smaller chair sat a beautiful young boy, seven years old, engrossed in a book.

"That's me," Flynn whispered. "I remember that. That book—it was the last gift they ever..." He trailed off, turning away so that the spirit would not see what now glistened on his cheek.

The spirit looked compassionately at him. "Yes," it said. "This is the last Christmas you had with your family."

"My sister," he murmured, his gaze fixed upon the little girl. "Virginia. That was her name. I barely remember her now." He wiped his cheek. "I wasn't even paying attention to her. To any of them."

The spirit said nothing.

"But where is my—_oh,"_ he breathed, as his mother came into the room. She had let down her hair, and it cascaded down her back in waves. Her threadbare cotton dress was covered in an apron, and her hands were coarse, but her face was youthful and beautiful—the very features Flynn thought he saw in the face of the spirit. Now he understood why the ghostly companion appeared as it did to him.

The young woman went over to her husband and picked up the little girl. She sat down in the rocking chair and began to rock the baby to sleep.

Flynn turned away. He couldn't stand to look any longer. "Please," he said. "Take me to some other time, some other Christmas. I don't know what can possibly be accomplished by looking upon _this _except pain... knowing what happened to them so soon afterward."

The spirit gave him a gentle look. "As you wish," it said in a low voice. It waved its hand once.

The surroundings melted away. The town was replaced with a grove of winter-bare trees at the top of a hill. At the bottom of the hill were the roofs of a small village. Tendrils of smoke rose from chimneys. Still clutching the spirit's hand, Flynn glanced around and saw at once that a lean, lanky young man lay crouched on the ground, kneeling behind a small bush that had not lost its leaves, staring straight at the village.

"Spirit?" Flynn asked cautiously.

"Do you not remember this?" the spirit said.

Flynn gazed at the young man before him. He _did _remember... this was how he had spent, well, quite a few Christmases after running away and turning to thievery. The thought made him feel sick, because he knew what was coming. When the young man in the memory got up and began to walk cautiously, surreptitiously, toward the tiny village, Flynn could not help but follow after him, the spirit staying close by his side.

He knew where his younger self was going. He was not surprised—though he _was _ashamed—when the lean young man darted into the village church _while_ a Christmas service was being held. He was not surprised when his younger self slipped unnoticed, taking advantage of everyone's focus on the holiday, and grabbed up a locked box, leaping out the window before anyone could see.

He turned away from the scene in mortification. "Spirit," he said, "why are you showing me this? I know that... at the time... I regarded it as a very clever thing to rob the church of its collection for the poor, but I assure you, I have not held it up proudly since then."

The spirit regarded him skeptically. "And yet you do 'hold up proudly' the feat of stealing from an aged traveler, even looking upon his half-blindness as a circumstance to exploit."

Flynn fell silent. The spirit continued to look at him, its eyes seemingly piercing right through him. He grew uncomfortable under its gaze.

"My time grows short," the ghost said at last. "I have but two more memories to show you." The ghost waved its hand again, and the grove vanished.

Flynn looked around. The new setting was very familiar—in fact, it was the flat he used to live in, as recently as six months ago. It was the flat where he had spent the previous Christmas.

_Oh dear,_ he thought at that. He also recalled quite clearly what he had done on that occasion, and for some reason that he could not explain, he was not eager to see it from a third-party point of view.

A pretty young brunette woman danced happily around the sitting room. She put greens and holly on the mantelpiece, humming a carol under her breath. On her shoulder perched a cheerful-looking green lizard that smiled up at her from time to time. A gold ring with a small diamond sparkled on her left hand in the candlelight, and flakes of snow fell outside the windows. She was happy. She was busy decorating the apartment, and she was truly enjoying herself.

And he. _He_ was seated at a writing desk, a book of accounts open before him. It was a list of their expenses. He had a quill out, and an inkwell, and he was going down the ledger with a frown on his face. He set the quill down in the inkpot and glanced at the woman dancing merrily through the room.

"Eugene, why don't you put that away for now and come dance with me?" she called out.

His (slightly) younger self glared. He had just added up the total spent on decorations and holiday food, and it was not a figure that endeared him to her antics. She insisted that he should not steal anymore, and at this point he had kept his word about that. Their income had come only from his wages at the bookstore and the pocket money she brought in from selling baked goods and candles. They had enough, and could even save up, but it was difficult to watch hard-earned money drain away like this—and she sure was good at draining it. Flynn remembered very distinctly what had crossed through his mind: Last year, he couldn't help but think that a girl who had more experience with the world would be less expensive to maintain, because she wouldn't need to try as much.

"I'm busy," his younger self growled.

She twirled over to his desk and yanked him out of his seat. "There's plenty of time for that," she said. "It's Christmas, Eugene. Our first Christmas together. I want a kiss." She dragged him under a door frame and pointed upward, where a bundle of mistletoe dangled.

Flynn's younger self groaned as she pulled his face in close for a kiss.

At this sight, present-day Flynn turned to the spirit. Anger was in his eyes. "Are you trying to shame me now?" he demanded. "What is the meaning of showing me this?"

The spirit gazed up at him woefully. "Why so defensive, Eugene? You made the same accusation to your first visitor when this part of your past came up."

He took a series of deep breaths to calm himself, until at last he could speak again. "We parted ways six months ago," he said curtly. "She knows where I live. If she wanted to pursue me and try to win me back, she could have done so. She hasn't."

The spirit looked long and deeply at him. "She hasn't," it said contemplatively, "but is that because she has had no interest in doing so, or because you threw her off in such a way that it left her no hope?"

"Does it matter?" he asked snidely. "I don't know how she took it, anyway. She didn't tell me. That's her business."

"You don't know how she took it?" the spirit asked. "Then perhaps you need to be reminded. My time is nearly up. What I am showing you next is not a Christmas, but it is perhaps the most important memory I can relate to you. And, Eugene, it is _not _just 'her business.' It is also _yours._ Quickly, now!" The spirit waved its hand, and as before, the surroundings changed.

The apartment was the same, but the decorations were gone, and there were markedly fewer items in there. A drizzling rain dampened the window panes, and a muggy air filled the place. It was, as the spirit had said, not Christmas. It was summertime.

He was seated on a sofa, staring—or perhaps "glaring" would be a better word—straight ahead, as if he could bore holes in the walls with his sight. Annoyance seemed to ripple off his body like waves of heat might ripple off a street. Rapunzel stood in the doorway, dressed for travel, clutching a large overstuffed bag. Her chameleon sat on her shoulder, its eyes cast down, and _her _eyes were wide and rimmed with tears.

"I'm tired of it, Rapunzel," his (slightly) younger self said. "It's one problem after another. You miss your hair. You miss your mother. You want to see this, that, or the other thing—and all things that cost money. You wake me up in the middle of the night with your nightmares. I have to work, Rapunzel—I can't stay around the house doing nothing."

"Eugene—" she pleaded in a broken voice.

He continued heedlessly. "I have a _job, _a job that _you _insisted I must take, since you wanted me to earn money 'honestly'—and you made it as hard as you possibly could for me to stay rested and awake when I'm at work."

"I want them to stop too," Rapunzel cried, her voice breaking. "I want the nightmares to stop too, Eugene, but all you ever do is push me over, sometimes push me off the bed, tell me to sleep somewhere else—it's cruel, Eugene. If you were kinder, I think they might go away."

He glared. "How dare you accuse me of cruelty. I freed you from that witch of a mother. I'm the reason you're not enslaved to her in that tower this very minute."

"You _killed _her, you mean," Rapunzel sneered.

"I didn't intend that—though I don't regret that it happened—but Rapunzel, she had a knife out to kill _me."_

"Which you knocked away from her. She was unarmed by then. We could have negotiated something. But you took it and cut off my hair—Eugene, even if you didn't know she would die, and I understand that because _I _didn't know either, you _still _knew that it was special! It was magical! And it was _my _hair. You didn't even _ask _me." She shook. "We could have... made money with it." She closed her lips at once, as if she had just uttered a blasphemy.

He laughed. "You wouldn't have ever allowed that and you know it. You have nothing but hang-ups about that hair." He glanced at his pocket watch. "Rapunzel, this is a waste of time. There's nothing more to be said. Just—leave. Please." He turned away and pointedly picked up a book from the side table. He opened it and pretended to read.

"Eugene—" Her voice suddenly became desperate.

"Rapunzel, _go."_

"But _Eugene,_ I'm—"

He slammed down the book and stood up before she could finish. "Have I not made myself clear? I _don't care _about your never-ending stream of problems! Now _GO!"_

Her lower lip trembled, and the tears that had been threatening to fall the whole time rushed down her cheeks in a flood. Her face crumpled. Devastated, she turned and made to rush away, when something suddenly occurred to his younger self.

"Wait," that self called out, an air of spite in his words. "Give me your ring before you go. It's valuable."

She stopped cold. Turning slowly, she withdrew the engagement ring from her finger, reared back, and, with a rush of fury, hurled it at him. He tried to duck but was too slow. The ring struck his younger self directly in the face. He picked it up, regarded it with something like regret for a second, and then put it on the table, even as Rapunzel ran down the stairs sobbing.

Present-day Flynn turned to the Ghost of Christmas Past with misery etched in his face. "Take me away from here!" he gasped. "Please!"

The spirit merely glanced back at him. "These are memories of things that happened. Do not blame me for what they are."

"Please just take me back," Flynn begged. "I can't stand to look at this anymore."

The spirit continued to look deeply into Flynn's eyes. "You said the ring was valuable," it remarked. "If so, why did you not sell it? Why do you keep it still in—"

Flynn couldn't bear to listen to the end of the spirit's question. He suddenly remembered the candle-extinguisher that it carried underneath its other arm, and, grabbing at that object, he pulled it away from the spirit and shoved it upon the ghost's illuminated head.

The spirit dropped, as if shrinking, but the light that the entity gave off could not be extinguished. Yet, as he pressed down, he noticed that his surroundings were melting away, giving way to his present dilapidated apartment, and his own familiar bedchamber.


	3. The Second of the Three Spirits

**Author's Note**: What happens here may well be predictable and probably unimaginative, but I ask you what else I could've done for the "Tiny Tim" role.

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**Chapter Three: The Second of the Three Spirits**

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When Flynn awoke again, it was dark outside once more. This did not startle him as it had before, since he knew and had accepted the fact that spirits were about. This time he was prepared. The second ghostly visitor would show up at one o'clock, he recalled quite distinctly, and he was not going to be surprised this time. He had had quite enough of being surprised by such guests, and the closing scene from the last visit had left him in no mood to be treated to any further unpleasant remembrances—"taken advantage of," as he had mumbled to himself before going to sleep.

The heavy bell chimed one. Flynn braced himself. And no one, no fleshly being nor spirit, appeared.

Time passed. Five after, ten after, then fifteen. Flynn began to get annoyed. "Being held up by a ghost! _This _has to be the strangest thing that's ever happened to me—" he began to say, when suddenly a light shining through the keyhole caught his attention. It was a glowing orange light, which immediately put him in a state of alarm—was there a fire in the adjoining sitting room?—and necessitated his quitting the bedchamber.

He opened the door and nearly gasped in amazement. What had been a mostly bare room, stocked with a little furniture and a few books, was now transformed into a room fit for a holiday feast. Greens were draped across every inch of space, mistletoe and ivy hung from the ceiling, and the fireplace roared with flames—though his fear of a wild blaze was unfounded, as the fire did not leave the hearth. And the food! Dishes of goose, turkey, ham, sausages, roasted vegetables, steaming hot rolls, spiced pears, puddings, pies, cakes—an olfactory heaven lay in his shabby little sitting room.

In the midst of the feast sat a cheerful man, dark-haired and bearded, though it was a full beard and an untidy one, rather unlike Flynn's. He was garbed only in a dark green velvet robe trimmed with white, and the top of it was open, exposing the man's chest. The garment was belted. On the man's long and messy hair lay a wreath.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," the personage said.

Flynn merely stared at the spirit, wordless.

"Have you never seen the like of me?"

"Can't say that I have," Flynn said.

"Have you not walked and feasted with some of my brothers, meaning those born in recent years?" the spirit demanded.

"Brothers born in recent years?" Flynn said, though he thought his voice sounded like a squeak.

"I have just over seventeen hundred brothers, you know."

Flynn hardly knew what to say. "Well, that's... quite a family." As the spirit's meaning finally occurred to him, he thought about his reply. "And—yes, I think so. Some. Why," he said, trying to put some indignation into his words, "I 'walked and feasted' with your 'brother' from last year!"

The ghost frowned at him. _"You_ did not," he said. "Another of your household did, while you stood by and watched."

Flynn felt conscious under the piercing gaze of this spirit. As with his previous guests, he felt that this personage could look right through him, and it was not a comfortable feeling. "Spirit," he finally said, "if you have business with me, or anything to show me or teach me, then feel free to do so."

The ghost regarded him for a moment before nodding. "Touch my robe!" he said.

Flynn did, and at once, the feast vanished before his eyes. In fact, so did the whole room, _and _the nighttime darkness. They found themselves at once in a bright Christmas daylight, standing in the middle of what appeared to be a courtyard. A cheerful, jaunty little town surrounded them to their right, and to their left loomed a picturesque castle. The buildings were all decked out in evergreen and red ribbons. Bells hung from certain low windows and a tree had been set up and decorated in the middle of the courtyard. Snowflakes were falling lightly, dusting the courtyard with a soft powder.

Flynn glanced around in bewilderment. This jogged a memory, certainly... in fact, as he focused harder on the place, he realized that he knew exactly where this was. This was the courtyard of the royal castle of Corona, the island kingdom from which he had stolen the princess's crown. The artifact that had ultimately led him out to a tower...

Flynn turned to the Ghost of Christmas Present. "What are we doing _here?"_ he asked. "My previous visitor brought me to places, I think, with the purpose of"—for a second Flynn was about to say "shaming me," but thought better of it, since that accusation had not gone over well with the ghost of Mother Gothel or the Ghost of Christmas Past—"the purpose of making me think about them, and about their meaning. And they had a connection to me. They were _my_ memories. This place—Spirit, I don't have the crown anymore. That was the only connection I ever had with this place."

The spirit regarded him evenly. "That is not so, Eugene. You do have another connection of which you do not know. But you must figure it out yourself. For now, observe!"

Flynn turned to the door that led into the courtyard. "Can we go inside?" he asked.

"We can indeed." The spirit headed toward the door at once, and Flynn continued with him. They passed through the door as if it were nothing at all.

The inside of the castle was also decorated for Christmas. Evergreen boughs and holly adorned the halls, and ribbons and bells hung from the doorways. Clutching the spirit's green robe, Flynn walked with him down the corridors until they came at last to a vast banquet hall from which delicious scents issued forth. They proceeded inside.

"They cannot see us," the spirit said.

"Right," Flynn said. "I gather that's how your kind can make things work." He peered out at the room. A vast wreath easily five feet in diameter hung high from the grand window of the dining hall, and red and gold ribbons extended from this wreath across the room to the other side. The table was piled high with treats just like those that had been in Flynn's sitting room when he found the spirit there, except there was vastly more food here.

At one end of the table sat His Majesty, King Everard of Corona. He wore his crown and wore a dark green robe trimmed in white, similar in some respects to that which the Ghost of Christmas Present wore, Flynn noticed—but the king was properly dressed underneath it. Beside him sat his wife, Queen Sophia. She also wore her crown, and she was dressed in winter white with light blue and silver trim. On the other side of the king sat the Captain of the Guard, still in royal livery, but without his helmet. Other members of the guard, those that apparently did not have families of their own to dine with, sat nearby. Then at the other end of the table, what looked like the entire staff of castle servants sat.

"The royals invite their staff and the guardsmen who are alone in the world to dine with them at Christmas," the Ghost said to Flynn. "They say it is important to remember at this time of year that regardless of wealth or position, they are all human beings, all created equal."

Flynn did not know that about them. He had always supposed them to be snobbish and arrogant. He glanced at Queen Sophia, and for the first time he noticed a tear glistening in one eye. He looked then at the king. His eyes were already rimmed with tears. The king glanced down quickly and dabbed them with his napkin, pretending to wipe his mouth at the same time.

"It must be very lonely for them to eat all by themselves in this huge room during the rest of the year," Flynn said, because he felt that he needed to say something.

"Actually, the king and queen do not usually dine in this hall at all. There is a smaller room for family meals. Of course, theirs is a very small family." He gave Flynn a significant look at this.

Flynn knew what the spirit was referring to, the kidnapping of their daughter, but he didn't know what that had to do with him. It was tragic, of course—no parent should have to suffer through that—but he had been only a boy himself when it happened, and at no point in his criminal career had he heard even the slightest hint of the princess's whereabouts. Honestly, he believed her to be dead.

"She is not dead," the spirit said, reading Flynn's thought.

Flynn turned around. "You can see anything—like that?" he demanded.

"On this day, I can look upon whom I will. I also have the gift of prophecy."

"You do? Then—will she be found?" Flynn asked. He couldn't explain why, but all of a sudden, it was very important to him that the daughter of these kindly people be found. He glanced at the queen again. She was a beautiful woman, and she looked remarkably like Rapunzel. _Wait, where did that thought come from?_ he wondered.

"If the shadows that I see remain unchanged, then no, she will not be found, nor will their reign be long. Even now they bury their grief in their work, but with each passing year the burden becomes greater, and it is especially great at certain times of the year."

Flynn felt as if the Ghost had dashed him with icy water. "That's terrible!" he exclaimed. He turned to the spirit. "Where is she? I'd bring her home myself if I knew where she was"—_and the reward for that sure would be large,_ a traitorous part of his mind whispered.

The Ghost shook his head sadly at him, and Flynn realized at once that his thought had been overheard. "Your heart was pure in this matter until you had that thought, Eugene. Let us go. Let us see merriment."

They left the castle and headed out into the streets of the city. Still holding fast to the spirit's robe, Flynn passed by the shops of Corona. Most of them were shuttered, their proprietors at home with their families and friends. Overactive children, all bundled up for the cold, occasionally darted through the streets, ringing bells and setting off firecrackers, wishing anyone they passed a merry Christmas before their parents called them home. Flynn stopped outside several windows and peered in at the dinners, dances, games, and parties that were taking place inside. Some families had more money and some less, but everywhere he looked, there was enjoyment, excitement, reflection, remembrance, and most of all, love. By the time they passed by the home of a couple with four redheaded children—Flynn remembered them from his first trip with Rapunzel into this city, when they had braided her then-blonde hair—he was feeling the excitement himself and wished he could go inside and join in.

"Spirit," he said happily, "if your lesson has been that I should learn to be merry again when the occasion calls for it, it was a success! I wish I could go right inside, into any one of these houses, and—and—and play cards, or chess, or charades, or any of the games we've seen tonight." He was smiling.

The Ghost of Christmas Present, however, looked grave, and Flynn noticed that his hair was less brown than before. Hints of gray showed in it now, and his face was becoming lined.

"Spirit?" he said in alarm. "What's happening to you?"

"My time on Earth is brief," the spirit said, "and it grows short. I have one more Christmas observance to show you tonight before I leave you."

Flynn felt a chill and a sense of foreboding. He suddenly feared what he was to be shown, but he did not gainsay the spirit. "Very well," he said uneasily. "Where is it?"

"At the Snuggly Duckling Tavern," the ghost said.

And with that, they seemed to fly through the night, away from the merry island kingdom toward the mainland, where the disreputable inn stood. In a second, the creaking, precariously leaning wooden tavern lay before their eyes.

"Shall we go inside?" the spirit said.

"I... suppose so," Flynn said nervously. He walked with the ghost into the dimly lit place, fully aware of what—or whom—he was about to see, and dreading it with every step.

Inside the place, the usual crowd of ruffians sat chuckling and bellowing across tables and the bar. Foaming mugs of beer were poured one by one and quickly imbibed by the over-large ruffians, and the innkeeper had even broken out a holiday treat—his stock of brandy and red wine. Cheers and toasts, most of them rather inebriated, filled the common room.

But what amazed Flynn was that food was laid out as well, and it was actually edible food. A huge roasted boar had been picked clean, as had a goose. A vat of stew that actually contained edible vegetables sat bubbling in the innkeeper's pot, though it was already half empty. Rolls—mostly burned on the bottom, but otherwise good to eat—were being buttered and tossed about. Hookhand was pounding out Christmas songs one after the other on the battered old piano, and the poor chained accordionist was accompanying him. Several of the more intoxicated ruffians were dancing in tune—or attempting to, anyway.

The Snuggly Duckling thugs, who would often be inclined to get into drunken bar brawls on other occasions even with each other, were simply spreading cheer in their own coarse, brash way. There was no violence. Flynn could hardly believe it.

In the center of the hubbub sat a short-haired brunette woman with large green eyes, her chair pulled up at a table with Big Nose and Shorty sitting next to her on either side. Her clothes consisted of a plain navy blue cotton dress covered in an apron—the clothes that she wore when working as a barmaid in this place. That was the job she had taken after she had left—_no,_ Flynn corrected himself ashamedly in thought, after he had sent her out. _But she seems to be eating well, at least, _he thought as he gazed at her. She had filled out nicely.

Rapunzel was an island of politeness and good breeding in the midst of the rough crowd, but she seemed perfectly comfortable in their presence. She was eating goose and bread and vegetable stew delicately out of her earthenware. Flynn could not be sure of it, but he believed that the glass that sat before her plate contained punch rather than any alcoholic beverage. He wondered at that for a second.

And then Rapunzel stood up to get some more stew.

Flynn sucked in his breath at the sight before his eyes. It had been hidden beneath the shadows of the table when she was seated, but there was no question about it now. Her dress did not conceal the fact that she was very heavy with child.

Raw rage seemed to come over Flynn at this sight. He could hardly see straight. Turning to the spirit, he snarled, "Who did that to her? Which one of them's _had_ her? I swear, I will beat the—"

"Calm yourself," the spirit said sharply. Flynn fell silent at once at the spirit's authoritative tone. He gazed up at the spirit with wide eyes, and the ghost continued, gazing down disapprovingly at its human companion. "No one has 'had' her. These ruffians have treated her far better than you did, and protected her from any who might abuse her—and there are many passing patrons who would do so, seeing a woman who is unmarried, alone, and pregnant. But that child is yours."

"Mine?" he croaked. His gaze shot back to the pretty young woman who was now returning to her seat with a fresh bowl of stew.

"The other Christmas spirit who visited you showed you your parting of six months ago," the ghost said. "She was trying to tell you about this, but you told her you did not care, and you showed her that you cared more about the jewelry she wore."

Flynn felt absolutely ashamed of himself. What had Rapunzel been going through for the past several months? He didn't even want to think about the verbal abuse she must have received, or—his stomach turned over—the passes made by vulgar males who saw her as a slut. Was this what the ghost of Mother Gothel had referred to when she said that he had done worse by Rapunzel than she herself had? And then there was that awful parting. He suddenly put himself in Rapunzel's place and considered what it would have sounded like from her point of view. If they had not split up, then by now they would have been married, and she would not have had to suffer through this—any of it. Grudgingly, he could begin to see Gothel's point. Flynn didn't know what to say, so he fell silent, watched, and listened as Rapunzel began to converse with the two ruffians who shared the table with her.

She took a sip of the stew and then quickly set her spoon down. "Oh, it's hot," she exclaimed, picking up her napkin and dabbing at the side of her mouth. And, Flynn noticed, at the corner of her eye—though she did it quickly, apparently hoping that her companions would not notice.

Shorty, the old man, was very drunk, and he did not notice anything. "And to that I say God bless us," he drawled, "every one."

Rapunzel smiled weakly at the old man's benediction, but her other companion was not so easily distracted. "I saw that," he said abruptly. He looked at her with a pitying frown. "I hope you're not thinking about him."

She glared back at Big Nose. "Of course not," she said, but the lie was unconvincing to anyone.

Big Nose shook his head. "Oh, Punz. You're still in love with him, aren't you?"

She looked down at the plate. A tear fell upon it, and, somehow, even in the middle of the commotion, Vladamir the bulky unicorn-collecting ruffian saw it. "What's going on over here?" he growled, stomping over to the table. "You makin' her cry, Ugly?"

"No," Big Nose said, offended. "She's makin' herself cry thinking about Rider."

Vladamir turned to Rapunzel, the anger not melting away from his face, but clearly not directed either at her or at the ruffians at her table. Flynn felt uneasy, knowing perfectly well it was aimed at him. Vladamir put a beefy arm around Rapunzel's gentle shoulder. The chameleon Pascal, who Flynn noticed for the first time, scurried out from behind her dress collar and scampered down her arm to get away.

"Listen up. Don't waste a thought on that no good, worthless..." Vladamir continued with a long trail of abusive, and increasingly profane, terms to describe Flynn. Looking on invisibly, he felt every one of them as if it were a physical stab to his body.

Rapunzel winced at some of them, and by the end of the stream of invective, she was not looking any happier. "But I just can't help but hope that he'll come back," she said softly.

"He won't," said another ruffian, whom Flynn identified as Gunther, the interior designer. "His kind don't know a thing about responsibility. You need to forget about him. We'll take care of you—and your kid."

Flynn felt a rush of jealousy at this. They shouldn't be doing that. No one should be doing that. That was his job. He focused on Gunther, and for the first time, he noticed that the ruffian had a mostly finished infant's high chair at his feet. Apparently he was making it for Rapunzel. Flynn felt another stab of jealousy.

"That's right," said the ruffian known as Bruiser. Flynn glanced at him and noticed that he too had a half-finished baby gift for Rapunzel—in his case, a white baby gown that he was knitting.

A bell began to toll slowly in the distance. Flynn turned to the Ghost of Christmas Present and noticed, with shock, that the spirit was now completely gray, and his face was grave, grim, and as lined as that of an old man. He met the ghost's blazing eyes, locking his own with them. And suddenly a horrible premonition came over him, as if by the mutual eye contact the ghost had imparted him with a vague sense of some event he himself had foreseen. A shiver rippled down Flynn's spine, a foreboding of something that he could not or would not name, but had to know.

The heavy bell tolled again.

"Spirit," he exclaimed, "I know your time must be growing very short, but tell me—what will happen to that—to my—to _our _child, being born in such a place as this?"

The Ghost was beginning to fade before Flynn's eyes, but his own blazed once more. "If these shadows remain unchanged by the future, I see the chair vacant and unused, and the clothing carefully placed upon a still form."

As the implications hit him, shock, horror, and loss rocked Flynn. He fell prostrate before the ghost, but it was fading away even faster. "No," he cried. "No, please no."

The bell tolled the last stroke, the stroke of twelve, and at that, the Ghost of Christmas Present vanished. The wind picked up suddenly, blowing bitterly cold snow and dirty leaves around. Flynn looked around frantically for his companion, but the spirit was gone. In its place was a tall, black-hooded phantom drawing near.


	4. The Last of the Spirits

**WARNING**: References to multiple major character deaths, child death, and suicide. If this type of material is especially sensitive to anyone around this time of year, please either consider yourself warned or stop reading. I don't want to upset anyone by triggering a memory like that over the holidays (even if we all know how the original "Christmas Carol" ends).

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**Chapter Four: The Last of the Spirits**

* * *

The ghost glided along the earth as if being carried by the wind. When it reached Flynn, the latter knelt before it, such was the power of its presence. The spirit was robed completely in black, in a robe that covered its head down to its feet, and only one hand stretched out from under the fabric. The figure had a majestic aura, but one of mystery and looming dread. Though it was not the acute, panicking fear he had felt with the apparition of Mother Gothel, nor the startle that came with the Ghost of Christmas Past, Flynn feared this visitor more than any he had yet had.

"Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Future?" he asked uneasily as he stood back up.

The spirit said nothing, but pointed with its one extended hand.

"You're going to take me to see events that haven't happened yet, but will happen," Flynn insisted. "Aren't you?"

The hood seemed to twitch for a second, as if underneath it, the spirit had nodded.

"Spirit," Flynn begged, desperate to hear speech from the phantom, "please show me what will happen to—to my child with Rapunzel. _Please._ I must know." His desperation was evident in his words, and inside he was hoping that this spirit, whose very domain was the future, would show him something that proved the prophecy of the Ghost of Christmas Present to be false.

But the spirit still did not reply. Its finger pointed resolutely ahead. This was too much for Flynn at last. He broke, collapsing before the figure in a series of tremors and trembles. "Ghost," he cried, "You frighten me! Or what you would show me frightens me. But I know you have a—a good purpose in coming here, and I want to be a better man, to be the man I think I _started _to become, for a brief moment last year, before being led astray again. I will see what you have to show me, and I will try to take heed of it! But won't you say something to me?"

The ghost still was silent, its finger continung to point off in the distance.

Flynn took a breath to calm his shuddering nerves, tried to swallow the fear he felt, and resigned himself to a silent companion. "Very well!" he said. "Very well. I hardly know anything about the capabilities of spirits when they are visible upon Earth. And it may be that you choose not to speak, because this time I'm an older pupil, able to figure out what the lesson is myself. Lead on, then!"

The spirit began to glide away in the same direction it had approached from. Flynn followed quickly after it. In a moment after he reached the folds of the spirit's cloak, the surroundings seemed to transform around them into a city—not the cheerful, pleasant island city of Corona where Flynn had just watched residents celebrating Christmas, but the inland city in the neighboring kingdom where Flynn currently lived and where Rapunzel had once resided with him.

The sky seemed to become lighter too, though not cheerful. It was a gray, overcast day, but there was no snow either on the ground or in the air. People were still milling about, however, wishing each other a merry Christmas and conducting last-minute business before the holiday. The neighborhood was familiar to Flynn; it was not far from where he lived. The ghost stopped before one particular office, a judge's office, and he and Flynn glided inside the building as if its walls were nothing. The spirit's hand pointed at three men who were talking over a desk, and Flynn approached them to listen to what they were saying.

"All I know is that it was a pretty disgusting business," said one lawyer to his partner, who sat beside him.

"How'd he do it?" asked the other lawyer.

"Hung himself from the railing at the top of the staircase in his place. Tied the noose and then jumped off the rail, I guess."

"Yesterday?"

"Yep."

"That's disgraceful," the second lawyer said indignantly. "If people are determined to do that, they should at least wait till after Christmas. How selfish."

"Yeah, well, he was apparently selfish from cradle to grave. If he did it _on _Christmas, there wouldn't have been anyone around to find the body—so of course he had to do it two days before, to be the biggest inconvenience he could."

"You think he did it that way on purpose?"

"I do. It's fitting that he would be that self-centered." The first lawyer leaned in conspiratorially. "You know what else? His body dangled over a whole parlor full of other boarders. Can you believe that?"

"Ugh, then you're right about him, if that's what he did. Good riddance," said the second lawyer, contempt oozing from his voice.

The judge, who had been conducting business with the lawyers, leaned in. "I heard that too—_and _more. Gentlemen, this is just between us, but rumor has it that there were _heaps _of money discovered afterward. A regular fortune."

"Who's going to get it?" asked the first lawyer.

"No idea," said the judge. "No will's come to light yet, and there ain't any next of kin—that we know of, anyway."

Flynn felt his skin crawl as he turned to the spirit. "Spirit," he began to say apprehensively, "what are they—no, never mind," he said hastily, as if he suddenly feared that the spirit at last would say something, and he really did not want to hear his unspoken question answered. "Lead on. Lead on. I understand. I should wish for better things to be said about me when _I _cross over, and behave so that people _will _say them. And to pass on naturally, unlike that selfish troubled soul they're talking about." He spoke with false courage emanating from his words, as if he were trying to unconsciously mask a fear he wouldn't even name.

The spirit led Flynn to another part of the city, where a pair of plump middle-aged women were standing by a bakery, arms full of cakes and cookies. They were sisters, as they had exclaimed after seeing each other unexpectedly in the chance meeting. One of them and her family were visiting the other for the holidays and had just arrived in town. The long finger of the spectre pointed at this pair. Flynn edged forward to listen to them.

"So, Margaret, what's the news from Corona?" asked one of the women.

The woman called Margaret leaned in, woe in her eyes. "They think the king won't be long for this world now," she said unhappily. "It's the flu, and it isn't even that bad this year, but it was as if the poor queen just lost the will to live when she had it, and now it's the same with him. I'm worried, Agnes—there's no one next in line to rule. The king was the last, and the late queen's family—well, you know her father was the Captain in his day, a knight mind you, but still... she wasn't a princess, so we can't be neatly annexed into any kingdom her family rules. It's going to be disputed, I'm afraid. The current Captain wants the rule, but so does the brother-in-law of the poor queen, and he's a rich merchant, so he's known around there."

"You think there's going to be conflict?"

"Probably," Margaret said glumly. "They both have a claim, you know."

"How old would the lost princess have been?"

"She would've been twenty this past May, but Agnes, she's not alive. She can't be. It's foolish to hope that she'll suddenly make an appearance."

Flynn remembered the visit to the castle of Corona with the Ghost of Christmas Present. The king and queen had been sad then, certainly, but from the sounds of it, the queen was deceased and the king was practically on his deathbed by this future Christmas Eve. The lost princess would have been twenty this year, whatever it was... Flynn quickly did the math in his head, based on his memories of what the princess's age should have been, and realized with shock that this was Christmas Eve of next year!

Flynn's quick mind ran over his memories, trying to figure out what they meant. This was the second time he had been shown something relating to the Corona royal family. The first time, he had been told—what was it? That he had another connection to the family than just the stolen and returned crown, but he had to figure it out himself. He had not done that by the time his previous visitor had departed, because he had seen celebrations of Christmas by the people of Corona and had later been completely distracted by Rapunzel's circumstances.

_Rapunzel._

Her face flashed before his mind's eye, her short-cropped brown hair and big expressive green eyes. The face suddenly seemed to transform into the face of the queen, so fresh in his mind from the visit of the previous spirit. They looked so much alike that it was amazing he had never thought of it before the spirits came to him. He supposed that since they had not lived in Corona, owing to the fact that he was still wanted there for escape and unlawful flight, he wouldn't think so much about what their rulers looked like. Other things he had known about Rapunzel, the strange history of her hair—he had almost forgotten that she used to be blonde, since she hadn't been after the third day he had known her—all of a sudden fell into place. Then something else seemed to rush forward in his mind, the fact that the ghost of Mother Gothel had introduced herself not as her mother, but as the woman who _raised_ Rapunzel. She had said _that _would be explained in time, too. It all made sense now. _Rapunzel _was the Corona family's lost daughter.

"Spirit," he gasped, hardly in control of himself. His first question, the desperate need he'd had when he first saw this phantom of the Future, suddenly was at the forefront of his mind once more. "Spirit, please show me what has happened to Rapunzel!"

The spirit pointed in a different direction and left the bakery. The scenery of the familiar town vanished, to be replaced with a wooded spot that Flynn recognized as being probably close to the Snuggly Duckling. Urgently, impatiently, Flynn followed after his ghostly companion.

Flynn had walked through these woods before. He knew them reasonably well, and he knew that there were few buildings in Corona territory that were not part of the island town. The Snuggly Duckling was one. There were woodsmen's huts here and there as well, and one or two fishermen's cottages near the shore, but the other building of significance was the tiny, one-room chapel in the middle of a clearing in the forest. Flynn realized with apprehension that they were heading in the direction of this church rather than the tavern.

And then, as if time itself had been compressed, the sky was dark again, and there they were, standing between the little church and the cemetery adjoining it. There were no voices inside the building, and its windows were dark, but there were some sounds coming from the graveyard. They were coarse, rough, and masculine, but they were all tinged with sorrow. Flynn inclined his head almost involuntarily in the direction of the voices.

Even in the night, he could tell at once to whom they belonged. The entire group of pub thugs was in the graveyard, all clad in whatever black items they could scrounge up. They were all hovered by a single gravestone. Dread was seeping over his body, as he had a terrible fear that he knew whose grave it was, but something, not only the finger of the spectre beside him, compelled him to draw closer and listen to what the ruffians were saying.

"We all miss you," mumbled Big Nose toward the grave. Flynn noticed that the thug had a woman beside him, a dark-haired girl who seemed to have similar tastes to his own, but it was too dark to read the name on the marker. "If you can hear me—us—if you're lookin' on, seeing how your old pals are doing this Christmas, then know that we sure do miss you and wish you were celebrating with us."

"And Kate too," muttered Vladamir. "I'm so sorry."

This seemed to mark the end of the respects that the thugs were paying to the deceased person—people?—since they got to their feet and began to speak to each other. "I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for it," Vladamir said to the group at large, and he did sound sorrowful. "If somebody'd just been there, just been there to get to them and get a doctor to help, they might both have been saved." His words ended in a choking sob.

One of the Flynn's gaze darted to the tombstone. By sheer chance—or was it fate?—it caught the light of the moon, enabling him to read the inscription. A sick feeling washed over him as he confirmed what he had feared as soon as the Ghost of Christmas Future led him to this spot:

IN LOVING MEMORY OF

RAPUNZEL

A DEAR FRIEND

WHO TAUGHT US TO DREAM

MAY 1 1683 – JANUARY 28 1703

AND HER DAUGHTER KATHERINE

JANUARY 26 1703 – JANUARY 27 1703

Flynn felt that his entire world was falling away from him. He had known that his child, their child, would die in this bleak future. The knowledge cut through his heart, but he had known that the moment that the Ghost of Christmas Present spoke of it. But Rapunzel—he hadn't even considered that she might die too. Die of complications of childbirth—from having to deliver the baby unattended, alone, and in squalor, based on what Vladamir had just said—compounded with grief at the loss of her child. In this horrible future, he would lose them both, he thought miserably. In fact, he would lose them barely a month from the present time. He realized that the tombstone also didn't contain a surname for either one of them. That meant that in the future, not only had he not reconciled with her, but he had not even returned to claim his own child. They would be buried without a name, the child without a father.

"What have I done?" he cried to the spirit beside him. "What have I _done_ to her? Spirit, I didn't mean for this to happen, any of this." He took several deep breaths, trying to rein in his grief, trying to fix upon any sliver of hope. The first conversation he had heard, about the suicide victim, was back in his mind, for reasons he could not explain, but he pushed it aside. "Spirit," he demanded, his voice shaking, "I sense that our time together is nearly at an end... but please answer me this. Are the visions, the scenes you've shown me, visions of things that _will _be, or things that only _may _be?"

The spirit still pointed inflexibly at the ruffians. Flynn's attention returned to them, though he could not imagine he would hear anything but further reason to despair.

"Vladamir, you ain't got anything you need to be forgiven for," said Hookhand gruffly, as though he too had just had to wipe away heavy tears and get command of his words. "You didn't do wrong against her. And the person who did is dead now."

Several of the thugs glanced up. "How?" Attila said harshly. "Somebody shoot him? He didn't deserve to get off that easy."

"No, hung himself," Hookhand said, derision pouring from his words. "Coward to the last." He glanced back at the grave. "I guess it means at least he'll never destroy any other sweet girl. Come on... we'd better go."

As the ruffians quickly shuffled off, Flynn fell to his knees. "Was _I _that person?" he cried to the phantom. "Was I the man who committed suicide? Because of regret for—for this? But too late," he gasped out. "Too late." He put his hands over his face. "Spirit, that's not who I am anymore! This future you've shown me must be changeable—why show it to me if it isn't?

"I was selfish and unfeeling... thinking more about money and convenience to myself, like I'd done my whole life, even when the time had come to think of her. I was cruel and impatient with her when I should have encouraged and comforted her, I know it." He broke out in a sob before the spirit as the memories of slighting and ignoring her, now painfully poignant, flitted across his mind.

Gathering himself together as best he could, he continued, though the spirit remained immovable. "And I turned my back on the world in general, looking at others as prey and myself as a predator... She began to change me, but I resisted because I was afraid of weakness. I returned to greed." He clutched desperately at the robe of the spirit, but still it stood without moving.

"But now I know what weakness and strength really are. That's not who I am now, and it's not who I will be! I'll go back to her, Spirit—I'll take her back. I'll love her and take care of her. I _do _love her. I'll take her back to her family. I'll serve her kingdom. Please, Spirit—please tell me this doesn't have to be this way!"

For the first time, the hand of the spirit shook.

"Spirit, _please!_ Tell me I can still change this!" He grabbed at the spirit's hand. It tried to pull away, but Flynn would not let go. In the ensuing struggle, Flynn observed through his agony that the spirit seemed to shrink. The dark surroundings began to fade away, changing over to a familiar setting.


	5. The End of It

**Author's Note**: Here you go. And in case anyone thinks this wraps up a bit too perfectly and too quickly, read the original. It's the same way. Just go with it; it's a hopeful story, and I think we need a little of that.

Merry Christmas and happy holidays!

* * *

**Chapter Five: The End of It**

* * *

It was his own bedroom, and where the ghost had been, he was now looking at his bedpost. Daylight streamed through the windows.

Flynn—no, he corrected himself in thought, Eugene—was feeling a strange mixture of happiness, anticipation, and tension. "What day is it?" he wondered aloud as he bounded over to his wardrobe to get out a set of clothes. "How long have I been with spirits? Though really, I don't even care—as long as she's still alive, I don't care. I've been given another chance." A smile formed on his face as he got himself dressed. He put on his shirt backwards at first and had to take it off and put it on correctly, along with his pants and doublet. As he pulled on his rough old boots and quickly ran a comb through his hair, he had but one resolution passing through his mind: _Get to her. Get on the horse and go to her today._

He pulled up one of the planks that concealed his stash of money and fished around in a particular canvas bag of riches until he found the item that he was looking for. Then he rushed out of the bedchamber, grabbed his satchel off the hook next to the door, put the object into the satchel, and hurried out of his apartment.

His heart and his feet seemed lighter thinking about how happy Rapunzel was going to be soon. The thought of giving joy to another person made him happy, and that was something he hadn't really felt since the first few months he had known her. _It's going to stick this time,_ he vowed. _I'll make it last._

Before he went to the carriage house in the back of his building to bring out Maximus, he decided to settle a point that he had been wondering about in his mind for a while. He went up to the front door of the building and walked outside. At once he was confronted with a blanket of two inches of snow. It must have fallen overnight.

A brown-haired boy about ten years old was coming by the building, clutching a bell in one hand and a nice new book covered in red leather and stamped in gold in the crook of his other elbow. Eugene smiled to himself. _The boy reminds me of myself, holding my favorite new book close for days and days._ "Good morning!" he exclaimed as the boy walked up.

The boy looked up at him with a smile on his face. "Good morning!" he called out. "Merry Christmas to you!" He scampered away, ringing the bell.

"Christmas!" Eugene said to himself as the youth passed by. "Could it be? Could they have done it all in one night?" He walked up a couple of blocks to a newspaper stand and looked at the date on the top. December 25, 1702. "It _is_ Christmas Day!" he murmured. "They did it! Of course they did. They're supernatural. They can do anything they want." He laughed. That made his plans for _her _even sweeter.

On the way back to the building, he saw an old man wandering on the sidewalks looking unhappy. A twitch of guilt passed over him as he recognized this as the same old man he had pickpocketed the night before. He vowed then and there to find an opening to pay the man back.

"Good morning, sir," he said respectfully. "How are you this beautiful Christmas morning?"

The old man looked up at him unhappily. "Good morning. I'm grateful for the blessing of the day, but unfortunately I discovered this morning that I must have lost a large purse of money that was meant to be a gift to my grandson to pay for his college schoolbooks this next semester." He looked down at the sidewalk unhappily. "I decided to retrace my path in the hope that I'd find it... but I don't really expect to."

Eugene thought for a split second before bursting into a smile. "Then this really is your lucky day," he said, opening his satchel. "Because yesterday I picked up a purse of money around here that I bet you anything was yours." He withdrew the pouch that he had stolen from the man and handed it over. "Would this be it?"

The old man's eyes sparkled as he examined it. "Why, I do believe it is! Thank you, and God bless you!" He weighed the pouch in his hands.

Eugene felt guilty for a moment at the slight deception he had pulled, but he decided there was no avoiding it. It wouldn't achieve anything to tell the old man he had stolen it. What mattered was that he had the money back.

He awkwardly accepted another round of thanks and took his leave of the old man. Then he went around to the carriage house and mounted the horse, which gave him a knowing look. That horse did things like that, he thought. "Merry Christmas, Max," he said, patting the animal. "Now let's go find her!"

The horse walked civilly through the town streets, taking off at a run once they were outside city limits and not slowing down until he had traveled the approximately 30 miles to the outer territories of the kingdom of Corona, where the Snuggly Duckling was located. Eugene's stomach was rumbling by the time Maximus slowed down once more and the rickety inn came into sight.

Maximus stopped about fifty feet from the entrance to the tavern, and Eugene dismounted. He took a deep breath, trying to wipe the ear-to-ear grin off his face, and when he was calm and stern enough, he strode confidently up the road to the inn.

Hookhand met him at the door as he approached. His huge form blocked the entrance, and a scowl filled his menacing face. "What're you doing here?" he growled, showing his hook threateningly. "You got some nerve—"

Eugene raised an eyebrow. "I'm here to speak to her," he said.

Big Nose joined Hookhand at the door and leered down at Eugene with disdain. "Yeah? Maybe we're not gonna let you do anything else to her. Maybe you'd better get on the horse and get out of here if you know what's good for you." Eugene gazed past the ruffians into the tavern and noticed that the rest of the crowd was there already, drinking wassail and hot cider. Several of them were cracking their knuckles at the sight of him, and a low rumble of disapproval filled the place. His heart sank.

"No," came a feminine voice. The ruffians at the door glanced around, and the place fell silent. Rapunzel stepped down the last stair, dressed in the navy blue dress of the Ghost of Christmas Present's visit, and regarded him with a gleam in her eyes that made his heart leap again. "No," she repeated as the thugs parted like the Red Sea to let her pass. "Let me hear what he has to say."

Hookhand glanced at her uneasily. "Well, it's your business," he said. He turned to Eugene again and flashed out his hook in Eugene's face. "But _you _get this straight. If she comes back upset again, well..." He pantomimed drawing the point of the hook across Eugene's neck.

"Understood," Eugene said around a gulp. The ruffians drew back and let Rapunzel go through the door.

Once they were both outside, away from the entrance, she turned to him expectantly. He looked at her, suddenly unable to find words. Seconds passed. She raised an eyebrow, and the spark in her eyes seemed to dim. That snapped him into action.

_I shouldn't address her like this,_ he suddenly thought, _as if we're on equal footing right now. _So he knelt before her and reached for her hand as a supplicant.

"Rapunzel," he began, looking at her with wide, pleading, brown eyes, "I want to apologize, and beg your pardon, and ask your forgiveness."

Those emerald eyes grew wide, and he saw them start to redden at the corners. He continued, taking her hands and clutching desperately at them.

"I'm so, so sorry for the way I treated you, not just that one time last summer, but most of the time that you were with me. I'm sorry for what you went through afterward, because that is my fault too. There is no excuse for it, and I offer none. All I can do is offer you my sincerest, deepest regrets and apologies—and to ask you, no, to _beg_ you, for a second chance."

Her breath caught in her chest, but she could not respond yet. He kept speaking, though, recognizing that her silence was not a refusal, but that she was simply too emotional right now to reply. He had more that he wanted to tell her anyway.

"I promise I would do better, that I'd love you and treat you as you deserve, and that I'd take care of you. I want to spend the rest of our lives together... and I mean it this time. I've had a"—he thought for a second—"a revelation, and I've decided to be the man that you fell in love with once again. Will you give me another chance?" He bent his head and faced down, waiting for her to issue her verdict.

"Of course I will!" she said, her voice cracking. She pulled him to his feet and threw her arms around him. He embraced her back at once.

They stood there for what felt like forever, just holding each other. In a minute he felt her shaking and realized that she was crying tears of joy. He loosened his grip on her and separated. They regarded each other lovingly.

She spoke. "Eugene, did you have any doubt what I would say? I've been waiting for this for the past half year! I was starting to lose hope that it was going to happen. Did you plan this, Eugene? As a Christmas gift?"

"Of course not!" he exclaimed. "Do you think I would have this change of heart and let you suffer for any number of days, just so I could speak on Christmas? The change itself happened last night." He paused. "I heard about your _condition, _and I realize now, that's what you were trying to tell me that day, wasn't it?" He gazed up at her, waiting for a response.

She took a deep breath. "Yes," she said huskily, her hand involuntarily going to her eight-months-pregnant stomach. "It was." She met his eyes, and her own grew wider still. "Eugene, I swear, I've never been with, never even thought about anyone but you this whole time. I couldn't stop hoping—" She broke off.

"Me either, Rapunzel," he said. He was suddenly very glad that he had not pursued other women, even if it was only because he was so bitter, so greedy, and so cheap. "No one's touched me since you did."

She buried her face against his chest once again for a moment, then pulled away. He could tell that she wanted a kiss, but suddenly he remembered the object he had put into his satchel that morning. "Wait," he said as she drew near again. He opened the flap of the satchel and brought out a tiny black velvet drawstring pouch, which he opened. He pulled something out of it.

Her breath caught. "Eugene, is that the same—"

"The very one," he said. He took the hand that she was holding out to him and slipped the diamond back on her finger, then brought her hand to his lips for a kiss, then released it so that she could look at the ring again.

"You kept it," she said softly, admiring the ring. She turned her hand over so that she could look at it. Etched in tiny letters on the back were the initials of their first names: _E. & R._

He tilted her chin upwards so that her eyes met his, and they smiled at each other. His heart thumped. This felt _so _wonderful. He was leaning in to kiss her when she leaped to her toes and grabbed him first, pressing her lips firmly and possessively against his. A thrill rippled over his body as he parted her lips and took control of the kiss. She let out sweet little moans of delight at the touch. He held her as if he would never let her go.

_Well,_ he thought as he devoured her, _I'm not going to let her go now._

When they finally broke apart, wild, boisterous applause broke out from inside the Snuggly Duckling. The couple turned around, their faces growing red from embarrassment, but still proud and pleased with themselves as they looked over the faces of the ruffians. Genuine pleasure filled face after face. Even Hookhand looked pleased. When the pair entered the pub, Eugene felt the pianist's heavy hand thump him on the back in approval.

They spent Christmas Day at the pub, separating from each other only very reluctantly and for the shortest amount of time possible. Rapunzel went up to her quarters in the place and brought Pascal down after breakfast. Eugene never thought he would think it, but he was glad to see the little lizard again in the flesh. Rapunzel went out at one point and petted Max, who seemed glad to see her too. The evening celebration went just as he had seen it with the Ghost of Christmas Present, except that he was there, Rapunzel was jubilant, and the pub thugs toasted the pair instead of verbally abusing him to her.

As the night grew old, she pulled him into her quarters and kissed him over and over again before they finally decided to go to sleep. When at last they curled up together, wrapping into each other's arms as closely as they could, she whispered in his ear, "This was the best Christmas present I've ever had!"

He chuckled and gave her a light kiss on the forehead. "I love you—so much," he whispered.

"I love you too."

In the time when thoughts were rolling around in his mind before he went to sleep, Eugene thought about everything. He would someday have to tell her about the ghostly encounters, but only after his daughter was safely delivered. He was determined not to allow either of them to die. He fixed the date of January 26 in his mind. She _would _have access to a doctor, he swore silently. The very best one that could be found.

Eugene had decided not to tell her about her real parentage immediately. He would eventually do it, and soon; the women's conversation on Christmas Eve of the next year still weighed on his mind. He needed to bring her home before their child was born, so that the royal physician could attend them. But he knew that it would not do to return the lost princess to her parents eight months pregnant and unmarried. The king and queen would certainly insist on their immediate marriage, no doubt, but if he brought her back that way, rumors and gossip would start about her, and she might never escape them. It would be inconsiderate to risk that. There was no reason to wait to marry, he decided; they _had _been engaged for nine months before he broke it off. It was best to do it as soon as possible.

And so, after a visit to the bishop of Corona (with Rapunzel looking embarrassed, Eugene looking guilty, and the cleric eager to get the couple lawfully wedded as soon as he saw Rapunzel's midsection) and the confession that he required from both of them before performing the nuptials, Eugene and his radiant new bride danced happily out of the little forest chapel on New Year's Day to the rice and confetti thrown at them by the Snuggly Duckling thugs. He picked her up and carried her into the cart drawn by Maximus, which would carry them back to his little apartment. However, they had already made plans to move out of that pretty soon and make their appearance before the king and queen of Corona.

_That_ was not quite a week later, as the nervous newlyweds made their way on Maximus to the castle on the day of the Twelfth Night feast. Rapunzel was nervous for one reason, Eugene for another. She was afraid of the responsibilities that she would be taking on by claiming this life, and she was afraid of finding another set of manipulative, emotionally abusive parents in the king and queen. Eugene's fears were different: Despite his legal connection to the princess and the emotional bond they had rekindled, he feared that they would not accept her story and that as a result, he would be jailed and executed in spite of everything. He didn't tell her of this fear as they drew nearer, but it was foremost in his mind.

Afterward, he recognized that he, at least, needn't have worried. _She _also didn't need to worry about the temperament or character of her parents. The rest of her concerns remained, and only time could do away with them. However, once they had told the tale of the tower and magic hair to the guard on duty, they had been given an audience with the royal couple. From there, it had happened organically. Eugene could tell that the royals were less than pleased at Rapunzel's reluctant answer to how long the young pair had been married, but afterward, the king took him aside for a private talk.

Eugene expected that he would be given a tongue-lashing and essentially put on probation. To his surprise, the king said instead,

"I comprehend, from what my daughter said about working in that tavern, that you had misunderstandings for some time, and that your revelation of her birth and identity was quite recent and basically coincided with your decision to reconcile. Rider—I'm sorry, _Eugene—_please know that I do not begrudge you the two weeks' delay between this discovery you made and your appearance here. I'm grateful that you did not bring her back in the situation she was in two weeks ago. That you did not want to expose her to that indicates that you do respect her, and I am convinced of your mutual affection from watching the two of you."

When the announcement was made that afternoon, the feast of Twelfth Night turned into a kingdom-wide celebration. With a deliriously happy Rapunzel by his side, Eugene went to bed that night in the luxurious suite that the king and queen had preserved, unused by any guests, in case their daughter ever returned. The next day, the celebration continued, even though the holidays were over. The people now had a new reason to celebrate. He found, to his surprise, that between their gratitude at returning her, his obvious love and affection for her, and the simple fact that he _had _held down a legitimate job in another kingdom ever since that incident with the crown a year and a half ago (and had therefore not troubled them), the people of Corona even welcomed _him._

When the date of the 26th approached, Eugene's nerves were on edge. The engravings on that tombstone were still etched into his memory, and a medical condition might be a fate past any possibility of change. But his hope was justified. With an experienced midwife and the royal physician attending, the delivery was trouble-free and the little girl was healthy. The birth of little Princess Katherine was yet another reason for the kingdom to celebrate, and by the end of January, Eugene couldn't help but think that the brewers and bartenders of Corona would surely be among the wealthiest residents of the kingdom. It had been a nearly constant state of celebration, for one reason or another, for a solid month.

That period was the beginning of a real transformation and a lasting one. His vow to the Ghost of the Future to serve Rapunzel's kingdom was fulfilled. Though he never quite became comfortable hearing himself addressed as "Prince Eugene," he quickly became invaluable as the king's most trusted diplomat. He _was _very smart and always had the ability to be charming when he wanted to be. The money that he had accumulated under the floorboards in the old apartment was—at least, the part that had been acquired improperly—given to charity in the kingdom, and the part that he had earned was spent on things for Rapunzel. Even though she had every luxury that her parents could afford, he wanted to try to make up for the six months that they were apart, as well as the year in which he was so often stingy and insensitive with her. She understood what he was doing and why, and it only increased the tender feelings she held for him.

Eugene had no further contact with spirits—at least spirits of the paranormal sort—and it was said of him afterwards, every holiday season, that he possessed the giving heart, feelings for family and friends, and mischievous youthful spark that, if anything, were the true spirit of Christmas. Some people thought him goofy at that certain time of the year, and others claimed that he had been "whipped." He didn't care, and he didn't worry about it. At last, he had everything he had ever wanted.


End file.
